


Until You're Gone

by predictably_unpredictable



Category: Shelter: The Animation (2016 Short Film), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Angst, Happy Ending, I can't for the life of me keep these two apart, I suppose?, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, POV: John Watson, Suicide mention, don't worry this is happier than the ending of shelter, not series 4 compliant, post series 3, third person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-09-01 21:11:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8638195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/predictably_unpredictable/pseuds/predictably_unpredictable
Summary: John Watson wakes every day to a vast, infinite loneliness. Thankfully, he's able to bend the world around him as per his whim and fancy, constructing elaborate landscapes to bide his time away in this enclosed universe of his. He doesn't remember anything from BEFORE, only recalling the time spent in this dynamic world he's constructed for himself.But one day. Everything changes. And John is forced to confront his past, face his memories and find hope once again in love he thought was once lost.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically an AU of [Shelter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=115&v=fzQ6gRAEoy0). It's a really awesome music video but if you watch it, it might spoil the plot for this fic (even though I changed the plot majorly)
> 
> I know I'm supposed to be writing THTDU. But I'm currently having exams and it's a bit too much to write at the moment. I just wrote the first chapter of this after a particularly gruelling paper to like satisfy my writer's craving haha. Hope you guys enjoy this!

 

 

 

 

> "Here, though the world explode, these two survive,  
>  And it is always eighteen ninety-five."

 

 

\----

 

John Watson wakes to the sound of nothingness.

Static. Silence.

It’s not surprising honestly.

It’s how it’s been for the past 2539 days.

Or at least that’s what the electronic clock on the wall tells him.

He stretches, raising his arms high above his head as he lets out a prolonged yawn.

What should he do today?

He steps out of bed gingerly, feeling the warm carpet shift under his feet as he makes his way to the bathroom.

This has been his routine for the past 6 years or so.

Wake up. Wash up. Rinse. Conjure up something to keep himself busy. Go to bed and repeat.

He sighs, feeling the metal of the tap under his palms, a solid weight under his fingertips as he turns the knob, watching as water gushes out from the spout below.

Just another boring morning...

Dumping his toothbrush back into the cup on the holder, John makes his way back into his bedroom. It’s a medium-sized room with concrete walls, adorned with a plaid-sheeted bed and drab, dull curtains.

Well, all of that is about to change in a moment.

John closes his eyes, concentrating for a moment, fixing his mind on the walls, the bed, the curtains…

When he opens them again, the room has changed vastly. Instead of concrete walls, there are now clear glass panes, giving view to the dense nothingness surrounding him, a barren, flat sheet of white land.

Same as always, just as John likes it.

It’s easier to start work on blank canvases after all.

There’s now a bean bag in place of the bed, which John happily flounces onto, revelling the softness of the fabric beneath his back as he closes his eyes.

What should he choose to do today?

It’s always an issue honestly, deciding what to do every single day.

He could do anything, anything that he wanted.

He’s imagined up worlds with castles, dense forests with thick undergrowths, skies never ending with clouds all different shades of beige.

And on the flipside, he’s imagined dingy, dark alleyways, danger at every turn, death awaiting him on all sides as he stalked through uncharted territory that his mind generated at its own whim and fancy…

What should he choose today?

He hums for a moment, scrunching up his nose before deciding on a beautiful seaside area.

He’s not thought up a sea in a while.

John pictures rolling waves, soft seafoam that crashes upon the shore, the warmth of the sand beneath his feet…

When he opens his eyes, it’s to a stretch of clear white sand, dotted with rough brown shells as it stretches off into the distance.

And on the other side of the glass panes is a crystal clear body of water, the water rushing and rolling onto the shore as John sighs, toeing off his shoes and moving to stand.

That should be enough to keep him busy.

 

\----

 

John doesn’t know how he ended up here.

One day he’d simply woken up, in the bed in the drab concrete bedroom that he didn’t even recognise. It wasn’t his, that was for sure, the sheets beneath his body had felt unfamiliar and rough, the pillows hard and uncomfortable.

He’d blinked his eyes, shocked and confused.

 _I need a glass of water_ , he’d thought to himself

And just like that, a glass of water had appeared out of thin air, materialising just above his palm, as if waiting for him to make a grab for it (which he did).

That was the first alteration he’d made to his universe.

The first of many.

He’d yawned, assessing the situation before him.

He didn’t seem to be in any sort of danger, in fact, the room was completely silent, devoid of any noise.

Turning to face the window, his eyes had widened upon seeing the vast stretch of nothingness stretching out into the distance, the land and sky so blindingly white it was hard to tell which was which.

 _I wish there was a garden or something nice_ , he’d thought.

And right before his eyes, grass had begun to sprout from the ground, their green stalks twisting and turning their way out of the earth as one particularly large one rose higher and higher, its bark thickening as its branches stretched out towards the heavens.

_There. A garden._

 

\----

 

He’d noticed the clock the next day.

In the excitement and bewilderment of the first day, he’d forgotten all about exploring his bedroom.

John had fallen asleep under the beech tree, breathing in the soft, earthy scent of grass and dew.

But he’d woken up again, back in the bedroom, the world outside back to its clinical shade of white.

He’d sighed, shaking his head as he’d risen from his bed.

And that’s when he saw the clock.

To be fair, he’d seen it the first day but had just taken it for granted as part of the surroundings.

It was a plain, simple digital clock, hanging on the wall opposite.

Except that instead of the 0 it had been displaying yesterday, the display now read 1.

 _It probably means the number of days_ , John had thought.

_I wonder how high the numbers can go._

 

\----

 

Honestly, all of this could have been made infinitely more bearable if John could just remember something… anything?

He remembers nothing but abstract concepts.

Like:

Grass grows up out of the ground.

The sky is meant to be blue.

Flowers are supposed to smell nice.

But otherwise, nothing.

He has no memories from BEFORE, assuming there was even a BEFORE.

And sometimes it gets too much, knowing that there could be memories just lying there, out of his reach.

But for the time being, that desire has sort of faded.

All the memories he has are of this new universe that he has made for himself.

Those are the only real memories he has to hold onto.

He remembers lying under dark skies, conjuring up meteors that crashed and burned their way towards the Earth’s surface.

He remembers warm sunlight streaming through the windows as he basked naked in the light of their warmth.

And on the flipside.

He also remembers that one time he’d tried to end this, this never-ending cycle.

~~However, it seems impossible to kill oneself here.~~

He remembers crying after, ugly tears dripping down his face as he finally came to the conclusion that he was trapped here forever...

Those memories should be enough.

Shouldn’t they?

 

\----

 

He’s in a jewellery shop today.

There’s no reason for it to be honest.

It’s just because he feels like it.

He flits through the store, pausing and staring at the array of gems up for sale, each glimmering brightly in the show lights.

They’re beautiful, all of them.

Well… of course he finds them beautiful, he’s the one who constructed them.

He sighs, shaking his head as he turns towards the cashier, the space behind the register empty.

As expected.

He’s ever tried imagining up other humans before. But all of them have always come out stiff and immovable, resembling mannequins far more than actual human beings.

Which is unfortunate really.

He hasn’t had someone to talk to in 6 years.

He runs his fingers through the row of necklaces adorning the tiny shelf space to the right of the store. The pearls and chains feel like silk beneath his palms, the clinking of metal resounding through the store as the necklaces fall back into place in the wake of his touch...

And that’s when he sees it.

John’s eyes widen when he comes to the end of the row of necklaces. For resting precariously on the edge of one of the stands, is a peculiar piece of jewellery, one that he’s never seen before.

Which is strange, since everything in his world has been created by him.

Or at least that’s what he thought.

He fixes his eyes on the battered chain, his gaze narrowing as he scrutinises the engraving on the two metal plates at the base of the necklace.

John H. Watson. The engraving reads.

The other slate is blank.

John’s eyebrows furrow.

This doesn’t make any sense?

Since when has he ever thought up a necklace like this?

He reaches for the piece of metal, his breaths speeding up as his fingers inch closer to the two metal plates, finally making contact with the cold hard surface-

And that’s when the strangest thing happens.

The world dissolves around him as his fingers wrap around the engraving, reality itself undulating and radiating out from his fingertips as John lets go of the necklace, taking a step back.

What the-

He’s no longer in the jewellery shop.

Instead, he’s in a desert.

He’s never bothered to conjure one up before.

The stretch of sand before him ripples with the wind, the weather hot and sweltering as the world around him continues to generate itself, emanating from the metal chain hanging up off the ground.

There are buildings now, beige concrete blocks that rise up from the ground, surrounding him everywhere he turns.

“What?” he breathes as his eyes widen, turning his head and watching as the scene before him begins to change.

Where is he?

And that’s when the screaming starts.

“JOHN!”

He turns to face the source of the noise, finding a man lying on the ground, bleeding just at his feet.

It’s a human.

“JOHN HELP!”

His heart speeds up as his eyes rake over the man’s bloodied form.

Why is he calling his name?

He turns to face his surroundings again, watching as other human beings begin to materialise.

There are men on the rooftops, unclear figures morphing into the bodies of people as they run, fleeing from some unknown terror.

There are bodies, still and motionless, on the sandy ground as well.

John’s breathing speeds up as gunshots are heard, the sound of rifles being fired across the buildings ringing out in the dusty street as he takes a step back from the man before him.

What the fuck-

“I’M HERE MURRAY. I’M COMING!”

That voice sounds oddly familiar…

John’s eyes widen as he turns his face around.

It’s him.

Well, it’s not him per se. The man sure indeed looks like him but…

His fingers are bloodied, his brow sweat-soaked and his cheeks caked in a thick layer of dirt.

“It’s going to be alright I promise!” the dirtied version of him calls out, rushing forward towards the man on the ground.

“Just let me-”

And that’s when John sees the man on the rooftop taking aim.

“GET OUT OF THE WAY,” he yells at the version of him on the ground, reaching out to touch him, to push him out of the line of fire.

But his fingers simply slip through the man’s body.

No, he thinks as he watches, as if in slow motion, as the man on the rooftop fires.

The bullet races towards the “him” on the floor, John yelling with all of his might at “him” to get out of the way as the bullet makes contact with his shoulder-

“AUGH!”

John yells as he sits up, rubbing his shoulder fretfully.

Oh god, that… hurt.

He groans, his eyes crinkling shut as he struggles to reign in the pain.

He’s back in his bed.

Back in the drab bedroom with the windows that show nothing but white stretching out into nothingness.

His shoulder hurts though. Oh god does it hurt.

Curious.

He’s not experienced pain like this in this universe… ever.

John groans again, massaging his shoulder as he turns his body onto his side.

What the hell happened there…

That’s never, in the whole six years of his time here, happened before.

He still hears the echo of gunshots as he rises off the bed, scratching his head as the pain in his shoulder begins to fade.

It was that necklace.

It has something to do with that blasted thing-

Sighing, John shakes his head, trying his best to rid himself of the desert nightmare.

Maybe there’s something he can take for this?

 _There should be panadol in the bedside cupboard_.

Well, now that he’s thought of it, it’s probably there.

He turns his eyes to the bedside table, scratching his nose as he moves to pull open the drawer-

And that’s when he sees it.

The chain.

It’s there.

On his bedside table.

And this time, the other plate isn’t blank.

John blinks in confusion as he peers over the side of his bed, getting a closer look at the engraving on the other plate.

William Sherlock Scott Holmes. It reads.

Who the fuck is that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys liked that! There should be more to come soon. I finish my exams on Dec 1st so I'll probably get to work on THTDU first and then continue with this.
> 
> Hit me up on [tumblr](http://predictably-unpredictable.tumblr.com) to see my fic progress and my shitty shitposts HAHA


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John discovers more about his past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I APOLOGISE.
> 
> IT'S BEEN A WHILE.
> 
> I'm not abandoning this story though I promise you!!! I'll try to complete it ASAP (((even though summer is ending and school is starting again UGH))) Thanks for sticking with me.

The next few days pass as they normally do.

John wakes up, washes up and goes outside to entertain himself as per his whims and fancies. He builds beaches, constructs meadows… he even bothered to create a waterfall one afternoon.

However, if John were to be honest with himself, he’s doing it more so to keep his mind off the dog tags.

He’s not touched the necklace since, choosing to leave the piece of metal in his drawer.

To be honest, John isn’t quite sure why he hasn’t dared to touch it since it first appeared there. He has no reason to fear it or anything else in this world. If anything goes wrong, he could simply “imagine” himself away, construct something to protect him…

Well… There had been the incident with the desert that had been completely out of his control…

But even on that front, John has been craving reprieve from the monotony of life here for years, shouldn’t a bit of danger or uncertainty then be welcome? Now that there’s a possible escape from his boredom, shouldn’t he take it?

And what if that vision he saw was not a hallucination at all. But a memory?

What if there really was a before? He should be itching to find out.

So why is he so damn afraid?

 

\----

 

This morning, John finally makes up his mind.

He picks at the drawer handle absent-mindedly, listening to the tapping of his nails on the wood before tugging on the handle, sending the drawer flying open with a rattle.

The dog tags are still there with that weird name on it alongside his.

_Sherlock Holmes._

John sighs as he bends forward to inspect the dog tags further.

It looks the same as before, silver and shining with scratch marks here and there. However, John notes with slight confusion, there’s a slightly different quality to it than all the other objects in this world have.

While everything else in his world seems smooth and untouched, the dog tags appear to be worn and battered, as if they’re more real than anything else here.

John focuses his energy on the dog tags, willing the metal to morph and smoothen. However, unlike any other object in the universe that John has lived in for so long, the dog tags refuse to budge.

This is certainly much odder than John expected.

He reaches for the dog tags, fingers trembling before he hastily pulls his hand away.

What is he doing? The last time he touched the dog tags, all it did was show him getting shot and dying. What the hell would touching it again serve? What if all it ended up doing was show him dying in the desert again…

John leans backwards, blinking up at the ceiling before taking a deep breath.

There’s only one way he’s going to find out what that thing does and that is if he touches it.

No good will come of him just sitting around and doing nothing.

John steels himself one final time, his jaw tightening as he reaches for the dog tags, the words Sherlock Holmes grinning back at him as his fingers descend…

~-~-~-~

_“Sherlock, everything is going to be okay.”_

_“Not when there’s a 10% chance that you’ll lose your memory! This technology is experimental, hastily constructed in the wake of the showers and its system is highly volatile! We can’t possibly know what’s going to happen-”_

_“It’s the only chance that we have though, don’t we? Would you prefer to hide out here and live life among the ruins, waiting for the showers to stop just so you can come up to breathe fresh air? Your brother has given us this chance to escape just for that reason. I thought you were okay with this...”_

_“I was okay till I saw the simulations being_ done _, John. God, what if that happens to one of us, what if it happens to me? What if I forget about London? About everything that’s happened in our lives so far? Do you think I want that?”_

_“No of course not, but it’s the best shot that we have…”_

_“What’s the point of living if I don’t remember you.”_

_..._

_“You know what. Here, have these-”_

_“John-”_

_“As a good luck charm. If you forget, maybe it’ll help to bring your memories back…”_

_“I don’t think that’d realistically be of much help-”_

_“Shut up you doofus, good luck charms have always come through for me,”_

_“And here I was, thinking you weren’t a superstitious person.”_

_“Desperate times call for desperate measures…”_

_“...We’ll be okay. Don’t worry. I promise I’ll never forget you… ”_

_“... I love you.”_

_“I love you too.”_

~-~-~-~

“AUGH,” John jumps back from the dog tags as if he’s been burned.

There’d been voices. Voices in his goddamn head this time. One sounded like him and the other was this… mysterious Sherlock character.

The John voice had said that he’d loved him, had tried to soothe the other voice’s worries and fears. It sounded like he cared about this Sherlock a lot, as if he was someone extremely important to him.

What were these things? Were they hallucinations? Errors in John’s universe or something far more sinister…

Or were they not sinister at all?

Were they memories?

John buries his face in his hands, shaking his head slowly.

What is happening to him?

Is he finally going mad?

“JOHN!”

What the hell!

John leaps up from the bed instinctively, hackles raised as he glares around the room, looking for the source of the noise.

“JOHN IT’S ME. OH GOD JOHN. ARE YOU THERE?”

John’s gaze eventually comes to rest on the dog tags. They’re glowing now, the letterings on the metal burning a bright yellow.

“Oh please, please, I’ve been trying for so long to find you. God, please don’t ignore me now. JOHN!”

That’s Sherlock’s voice, his brain helpfully supplies as John calms down, resuming his seat on the bed. That’s the voice that was in my head.

“Yes?” he calls out tentatively, voice feeling slightly hoarse, “It’s me. John.”

He listens for a moment as the voice goes silent. 1, 2 seconds pass before the voice all but bursts into sobs.

“God, is it really you? I’ve been trying to find you for years John. YEARS. I can’t believe it’s really you-”

“Who are you?” John blurts out, his curiosity getting the better of him.

The voice on the other end stutters for a moment, as if he’d said something unexpected.

John knows he’s said something wrong when the voice starts to sputter.

“You mean… you don’t remember me?”

John shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

“I... I’m sorry I don’t think I do.”

“Oh.”

The voice on the other end tapers off, plunging the room into silence.

Godammit Watson, you finally have someone to talk to and you blow it.

“But I’d like to… uh… remember who you are,” he continues, trying his best to salvage the conversation. “When were you here with me? I remember every day that I’ve been here and I’ve never once seen or heard of yo-”

“That’s because I knew you before all this, before we were sent up into space in a bloody rocket! John, don’t you remember London? Do you remember anything at all?”

“What’s London?” John answers, lips pursed, “And what do you mean by space?”

The voice on the other end is silent once again.

“Oh god, you really don’t remember. Do you?”

The voice seems to be rather distraught, John notes sadly as he listens to the crackling syllables of Sherlock’s (it must be Sherlock’s) voice.

Maybe he could try something...

“Sherlock,” he ventures, his voice whispering the word so softly that he’s certain the voice could’ve missed it.

However, there’s a soft sob in reply.

“You… you remember my name?”

So his name is Sherlock.

“Yeah,” John answers, “Well… sort of, it was on this pair of dog tags that suddenly materialised out of nowhere. The first time I touched it, I saw a desert. And then the second time I think I heard you and I talking?”

The voice on the other end seems to sob in relief.

“You’re remembering John, I think… you’re starting to remember.”

“Remember what?” John blurts out.

“What came before this, what we used to be, maybe what even you used to be. Did you know that you were a captain in the army John?”

John blinks in confusion before slowly remembering the desert, the man bleeding before him.

_So there was a BEFORE._

“Was I a doctor as well?” he ventures, curiosity bubbling over.

“Yes, you were. And a bloody good one too,” Sherlock’s voice chuckles.

They lapse into a comfortable silence, John listening as Sherlock’s breathing slows before continuing.

“So... What now?” John speaks, “Do we just talk or-”

“There’s supposed to be a mechanism that allows us to link up with various pods. By right, I should be able to appear along with your consciousness… But I suspect that our ship must’ve hit an asteroid or something, resulting in the two of us being disconnected from the mainframe-”

“Wait… are you saying that… none of this is real?”

Sherlock is silent for a moment.

“Depends on what your idea of real is.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re thinking, living and experiencing this right now. Isn’t that real enough for you?”

“Sherlock, you know what I mean.”

Sherlock huffs before continuing.

“If you want to be technical about it, none of this is ‘the real world’. We’ve been in a simulation for years. It’s supposed to be till a colony is established on another planet, safe enough for us to leave the simulation and for our bodies to come back online.”

“Sherlock, I understood none of what you just said.”

“Earth is being destroyed as we speak John.”

“What’s Earth?”

John can’t see Sherlock but he’s certain that if he had been here with him, the man would’ve flinched.

“You really don’t remember much do you?” Sherlock hums, “Seems like the coding has gotten entangled with your memories, messed them up a little so that you only know what the programme was coded to...”

“Sherlock,” John raises his voice a little. The man on the other end sounds like he’s treating this like a game, as if the only thing he’s interested in is understanding John’s predicament rather than fixing it. “Sherlock, I’m genuinely scared. Are you saying there’s a large part of my memory missing?”

John listens with bated breath as the man on the other side stills.

“Yes John,” Sherlock admits, “Yes… Unfortunately yes.”

John’s breath catches.

“Then how do I get my memories back? There must be some way.”

Sherlock hums and sighs.

“John, I must confess… the only reason why I contacted you after so long was that I was having a bit of trouble remembering too.”

John draws in a sharp breath.

“I… I think that since our systems were linked, both our coding must have malfunctioned. The only difference was that you’ve lost more of your memory than I did. Since I couldn’t and still can’t wake myself out of cryosleep, I got to work trying to repair my memory by following the flow of the ones I still had. I eventually remembered the last time we saw each other. The day that we boarded...”

Was that the conversation he had overheard?

“... You gave me your dog tags. Told me I could use them to remember you by. And I tried, god did I try. I tried for fucking years till there suddenly seemed to be a breakthrough - today.”

John shudders as he listens to the sound of Sherlock’s chest heaving, obviously the man is trying to stop himself from crying.

“I can’t believe I found you. God, I thought you were gone. That I was going to be alone forever and-”

Sherlock lets loose an ugly sob.

“Hey, hey don’t worry,” John soothes, “I’m here now. I’m here with you.”

He continues to talk as Sherlock sobs.

“Look… I… I don’t know how to fix this. But I swear to god, Sherlock, I will get my memories back and… and I’m certain when that happens, we’ll get to be together again.”

He wishes he could hold the other man right now, cradle him in his arms and soothe his tears. There’s a sense of protectiveness that he’s feeling over Sherlock that he’s never quite experienced before, as if deep down, there’s a bond between them that John has never noticed or acknowledged.

“Well…” Sherlock chokes after a moment, “To remember, all I did was… follow a trail of memories, starting from the latest memory I could conjure up. Maybe… that might work for you?”

The desert, John immediately thinks. He flinches instinctively, fighting the wave of nausea that starts to build as he remembers the man (Murray was it?) lying half-dead on the ground.

Well, if that’s what it takes to remember Sherlock, then so be it.

“John,” Sherlock whispers, breaking John out of his thoughts.

“Yeah,” John responds, shifting closer to the dog tags to hear Sherlock better. The dog tags seem to be pulsating with a weaker glow now.

“It’s honestly taking a lot of energy to sustain this connection,” Sherlock admits, sighing softly. “I might have to… I might have to leave you soon.”

John instinctively starts to panic, his breathing increasing slightly at the thought of being plunged into loneliness again. Thankfully, Sherlock seems to sense his fear.

“I’ll come back though”, Sherlock hastily continues, “When I gather up the strength. I promise you, John, I’ll never leave you again. Please don’t forget that.”

John nods in understanding, despite being fully aware that Sherlock can’t see him.

“Yes, I understand.”

Sherlock huffs a soft laugh.

“To my knowledge, the connection should be much more easy to establish if there’s a stronger psychic connection between the two people. Hence, when you started to remember, I managed to reconnect with you. So try to remember more John, that might make things easier for our next meeting,” Sherlock finishes. 

John can tell from the tone of Sherlock’s voice that the man is clearly getting weary.

“But what if I don’t,” John ventures, his chest filling with panic once again, “What if we don’t meet again because I screw up.”

Sherlock laughs weakly, his voice much softer than before. Sherlock’s connection is starting to fade and fast.

“I know you John Watson”, Sherlock replies confidently, “You’ll always find a way.”

John finds himself close to tears.

“Goodbye for now,” Sherlock finishes, his voice now barely a whisper, “Goodbye, John.”

John gulps.

“Goodbye,” he says into the silence of his room.

This time no one responds.

John reaches for the dog tags. They’ve stopped pulsating, the tags limp and lifeless as he takes them into his hands. This time, nothing happens when he touches them.

He sighs, shaking his head as he pulls the chain over his head. There’s no concrete evidence that Sherlock is speaking to him through the dog tags, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.

Rising from his bed, John makes for the garden he’d created a few hours before, setting himself down on top of a tiny swing chair hanging from the branch of an oak tree.

He watches the butterflies chase each other, swooping around in spirals and loops, in and out of the rose bushes, looks on as the clouds above him continue to morph, shift and soar… and yet-

It’s no longer the same.

The space surrounding him seems far more empty now that Sherlock’s voice isn’t there to occupy it, far less enticing… As if nothing means anything anymore without Sherlock’s presence.

Which is strange, because John barely remembers him. He doesn’t even know anything about their relationship, who they were to each other, how they met even.

John sighs, watching as the butterflies come to rest on the arm of the swing chair, wings fluttering as they huddle together.

He misses him already.

 

\----

 

John wakes with a start in the middle of the night.

Which is strange, since this has never happened before - him waking when the light outside is dark. Normally, he’s the only one who has the power to change the time of day in his world.

He forces himself out of bed, mind still groggy as he slips his bedroom slippers on and-

Wait.

He’s never had bedroom slippers before.

John’s brain seems to come instantly back online, his eyes widening as they finally focus on the room around him.

This isn’t the room he’s normally in.

While the previous room had been dull and drab, this one seems to have more… colour and life in it. The curtains are a bright yellow, the walls whitewashed and clean. Heck, even the ceiling isn’t peeling anymore!

Where the hell is he?

He pads over to the windows, shoving the panes open before peering outside.

Instead of the simple blank slate that he normally sees, there’s now a street directly below him.

A street with moving cars.

What the actual hell?

John listens as the sound of traffic rushes in, the faint honking of cars in the distance and motorists revving their engines a quiet melody as John slowly comes to himself.

He must be in one of those memories again.

John steps away from the window, catching one last glimpse of how the lights shine from the street below and the buildings nearby before focusing his attention on the room once again.

There’s no bathroom in this room, he muses, shaking his head as he surveys the room before him. Strange, there must be an en suite somewhere…

“John?”

John flinches.

“John. Are you up there?”

That voice is unmistakably Sherlock’s.

“Sherlock?” John calls, “Sherlock is that you?”

He waits for a while, listening carefully for a response… but none comes.

However, there’s light shining now from underneath his bedroom door. That most certainly hadn’t been there before.

John takes a deep breath.

“Sherlock?” he calls again before resting his fingers on the door handle.

No response.

“Sherlock, it’s me, John,” he says one last time before tugging at the handle…

Only to find nothing there.

John’s gaze rakes across the expanse of nothingness before him, the sea of white blinding his eyes as John registers that it’s suddenly gotten much… much brighter.

There’s no street, no landing, no… nothing. Just a blank space.

John closes the door with an angry thud, huffing as he turns around, heading back to his bed-

Wait… what the hell?

The room is now back to normal, back to dirty concrete walls and drab upholstery, even the en suite toilet is back.

Scratching his head, John settles back down on the comforter, turning his attention to the clock on the wall opposite.

The number has increased by one again.

 

\----

 

Another day has gone by without him talking to Sherlock.

This gives John a little cause for worry - What if Sherlock is unable to contact him again? What if all that happened yesterday was just a hallucination of his lonely mind?

John flings himself onto the bed, curling up into himself as multiple scenarios of Sherlock leaving him race through his mind.

Thankfully, before his thoughts begin to spiral any further, John becomes aware of the heavy weight of the dog tags against his chest, the two tags clinking together as he heaves another breath.

He’ll be okay. Sherlock will be okay.

Sherlock had said he’d come back.

And John… John had promised that he’d go back to the desert.

Maybe it’s time to do just that.

He has to see Sherlock again. He has to.

He’ll just have to bite the bullet.

John takes in one more breath, steeling himself before closing his eyes, imagining the arid sands of the desert he’d last seen himself in, the street that he’d last seen his past self walk through.

When he opens his eyes, his feet are covered in hot, grainy sand.

He rises from the bed, the piece of furniture an outlandish addition to the scenery surrounding him.

It’s hot, so very hot.

And so very quiet.

John swivels around on his feet, finding a village not too far from where he’s dropped himself - the same village he’d been in before.

All of a sudden, John hears the faint sound of gunfire rising through the desert heat.

He squints, watching as camouflaged gunmen appear over the village’s rooftops, looking on as people scramble away from the scene of terror, yelling and screaming.

He doesn’t need to think twice.

John runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyyy it's a cliffhanger! Btw if you've watched the video, you can tell that I'm deviating from the story a little bit. I just can't keep Sherlock and John apart haha. Hope you enjoyed this update!
> 
> Hit me up on [tumblr](http://predictably-unpredictable.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys liked that! There should be more to come soon. I finish my exams on Dec 1st so I'll probably get to work on THTDU first and then continue with this.
> 
> Hit me up on [tumblr](http://predictably-unpredictable.tumblr.com) to see my fic progress and my shitty shitposts HAHA


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